Chapter 11: The Tin

Joanna's POV

At five the next morning I was in Beatrice's kitchen in my socks, and I was not resting.

The doctor had said no stairs, no stress and no standing for long.

She hadn't said anything about baking.

The cook had left a light on over the stove and a note on the flour bin.

"Madam says you may have anything you like. I will pretend not to know."

I took down a bowl.

My hands knew what to do without me.

Butter, brown sugar, molasses, a heavy hand of ginger.

For three years I had made this dough for myself every December, standing in a kitchen with no one to give it to.

Today I measured twice as much.

I had found a red tin on the pantry shelf, round, with a dented lid.

I wasn't going to think about why.

By six the whole kitchen smelled like Christmas.

I sat on a stool by the oven with a cup of tea, watching the first tray turn dark at the edges.

A step in the doorway made me look up.

Bennett stood there in a gray sweater, with his hair wet from the shower.

He looked at the trays, and at me, and he did not say anything.

"I couldn't sleep," I said. "It was this or pace."

"I couldn't either."

"The doctor said sit down."

"You're sitting."

"I'm sitting in a kitchen."

His mouth moved, almost a smile.

He came in and leaned against the counter, three feet from me.

"I have to show you something," he said. "And I want you to know I'm showing you at once, because I won't hide things from you."

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